Witch
by Silencia del Umbrae
Summary: He has to believe she is a monster, because it is the only explanation for the way that she has bewitched him. (Do you ever write something and just know that you shouldn't post it because this is the sort of nonsense you should keep to yourself? That no one else ever wanted to think about this? This is that thing. We all pretend we are bigger than this but we are not.)


**Witch**

Summary: He has to believe she is a monster, because it is the only explanation for the way that she has bewitched him.

Disclaimer: Frozen and all related characters and settings are the property of Disney. This story and author are in no way affiliated with Disney, and no money is being made from this fan piece.

A/N: bahahahahaha I'M NOT EVEN SORRY

This piece is extremely short. I'd thought for a while about making it longer but I think I like it just as it is.

* * *

He is too old for tales of angels and goddesses and faeries, stories of love at first sight or rescuing the princess from the dragon. Those are tales he'd sometimes told his grandchildren, those last remnants of his family, on their rare visits. His dear wife has been dead many years now, and his children are gone. But it doesn't matter, he says; he is old now, and love and family are for the young. It doesn't matter, he says, and hides the old tarnished locket, with its small and tattered portrait of a lovely laughing woman in her wedding gown. It stays pinned on the inside of his jacket, where no one else will ever see it.

Instead of mourning his losses all those years ago, he'd dived into money matters. There was no family left to concern him, nothing but trade and business and the enrichment of Weselton. That, at least, was something concrete, and something that would never leave him. Love had always been a fleeting, ethereal thing, after all. He had always thought that it was too good to be true.

So once it was gone, as he'd always thought it would be, he focused on something that couldn't disappear the same way. He'd developed a reputation, and not necessarily a good one; shrewd but underhanded, brilliant but untrustworthy. His financial brilliance and cunning ways translated into…other work undertaken for the king of Weselton, and his successes were well-rewarded. He'd worn his medals with pride, though he never spoke of how he had acquired them— _spymaster_ was not a word to be tossed about, after all, particularly as he got closer to retirement.

Now he is old and a bit of a dodderer, as his oldest granddaughter sometimes says—perhaps fondly, perhaps not. His once-brilliant mind is a bit weaker and perhaps a touch prone to allowing slips of the tongue. But he is still the shrewd financier and curious man he has always been.

So when he hears that Arendelle, one of the richest and most mysterious of the kingdoms Weselton trades with, is opening its gates once again, he indulges his curiosity and decides that he will go.

That is what has led him to standing here and _staring_ as Queen Elsa of Arendelle walks into the ballroom for her coronation party.

He has not seen her since she was a very young girl, hardly more than a toddler, but as hard as he tries to see it, there is no trace now of the blond plaits and play smocks that he remembers. The newly-crowned Queen is a woman now, a woman beyond all doubt.

And the only things he can find to compare her to are the old stories that he once told his grandchildren. Angel. Goddess. If she is a queen, it can only be of the faerie court, and she weaves a spell over the room with her entrance—one that he falls under, if not without a struggle.

She's young enough to be his daughter, nearly young enough to be his _granddaughter_ , he tells himself, but that doesn't disrupt his fascination with her delicately folded hands, the proud way she holds her head, the grace of her step, the wistfulness at the edges of her smile.

He is too old for love and has never believed in love at first sight. He had once told his wife, many years ago now, that he didn't believe in love that wasn't earned, that didn't grow from knowing a person inside and out. She, always blessed with keen perception, had laughed. "You've just never seen the one that could sweep you off your feet with one look," she'd said. "Believe me, it happens." Then she'd kissed him and smiled. "It's probably for the best," she'd said. "You throw yourself all the way in to everything you do; you'd throw away everything for a love like that."

And now it is happening, fifty years too late, and though he is horrified with himself, he cannot make it stop. He tries, looking everywhere but at the queen, but eventually his gaze always comes back to her. When her sister stumbles in, making a scene, he barely notices, too busy watching the queen's smile turn shy as the princess approaches.

It takes him a moment to gather his courage, exactly like a terrified schoolboy, before he can bring himself to approach the queen for a dance.

When her gaze turns to him, polite and inquiring, for a second he loses his words—and his breath.

She has witch eyes. Deep blue, with hints of silver around the pupil when the light is just right, like stars in the night sky.

He'd always believed they were nothing more than a folktale of his grandmother's, right along with the stories of Gudbrund, of Maiden Swanwhite, of dwarves and trolls. No one could really have eyes like that.

But she does. Of course she does.

He gathers himself again with an effort, when he realizes that he's bobbling like a silly old man who's forgotten what he came for. He makes his request, couching it in the impersonal terms of trade and negotiation. That's what he's good at.

She politely, shyly turns him down, and he isn't really surprised. Fae don't dance among mortals, after all. When she offers him her sister's hand instead, he is unimpressed. Princess Anna, though a pretty enough girl, does not compare in the slightest to her glorious sibling. Nevertheless, he whisks her off to the dance floor.

Normally, he's quite a good dancer. But today, feeling the queen's eyes on him, he parades and peacocks around, sometimes stepping on the princess's feet. If he cannot have a dance, at the very least he can make her smile without that haunting sadness at the corners.

And when he hears a giggle (in spite of the queen's best attempts to quiet herself), he is satisfied with his performance and lets the princess escape his silly posturing.

Then he is swept up by men wanting to discuss business, his usual pastime at such parties, and he loses track of the queen. Eventually, he even manages to enjoy the conversation enough to stop looking for her.

The next time he sees her, her sister is shouting at her, and she is keeping her cool rather than sinking to the princess's level. In spite of the fact that he should be annoyed—an easily riled ruler is easier to trade with—he is proud of her. Her otherworldly glory would be tarnished if she sank to shouting back.

Suddenly, as she flings out her hand in a wordless command for her sister to stop, blue light leaps from her fingertips and spears of ice leap from the ground to encircle the door. One of them is mere inches from his chest.

There is a collective gasp of horror.

Those enormous witch's eyes fix on him for a moment, full of blind terror.

" _Sorcery_ ," he breathes.

And in spite of what anyone else might think, he isn't talking about the ice.

Her hand closes around the handle, and she flings the door open and runs—and he can't believe himself when a moment later, he hears his own voice order his men, "Follow her!"

* * *

He is too old for this nonsense, monsters and sorcery and witches.

She is a monster, after all. She must be. Who but a monster could inflict this on their people? Who but a monster could condemn children to death by freezing or starvation?

He has to believe that she is a monster, has to forget the faerie queen he'd seen in her, because it is the only way he can explain away the way she has bewitched him.

It's easier when he cannot see her face.

When Prince Hans demands an escort and he volunteers his men, he tells them, "Stop this winter. Do you understand?"

He hopes they do, because he cannot spell it out any more clearly. Not when those glorious witch's eyes are watching him from inside his own head.

While they are gone, he paces inside the castle, stopping every now and then to stare out at the whirling snow, to listen to the screaming wind. A dozen times he wishes to be able to take the words back; he's ordered deaths before, but never of someone so young, never of an ally of Weselton. Then he looks back outside and tells himself it's the only choice he could have made. She's a monster. She's killing her own people. Children are freezing in their homes; if this doesn't stop, they will die. And Princess Anna, whatever she _is_ doing, is clearly not doing enough to fix this. The people of Arendelle are beginning to gather in the courtyards. People, the elderly or sick or very young, are being brought into the castle's great hall to keep them warm and protected.

The temperatures keep falling, and he keeps stopping to stare out at the frozen fjord, waiting.

He knows that something is coming.

And when he sees dark shapes galloping across the fjord, he knows. Even before he can make out Prince Hans and the fluttering blue cape and dress that were certainly not Princess Anna's, he knows.

She has returned. Witch. Queen. Monster. Goddess.

She is alive.


End file.
